


The Adventure Of Rhododendron Lane (1878)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [16]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Murder, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 06:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Case 10: Wherein an unhappily married couple's differences prove fatal, and Watson gets to meet Holmes' brother Bacchus (aka 'Balty') for the first time.Unfortunately not for the last.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darklady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Ricoletti of the club foot and his abominable wife'. Mr. Bacchus Holmes' unwonted nickname for his younger brother was as in the affected French word 'cher' (pronounced 'share'), meaning 'dear one'. I dare say that he also had an even less acceptable nickname for myself, though I never heard it.

The winter of 'Seventy-Eight was a tense time to be in London. Hundreds of miles away, the British fleet was anchored off Constantinople, daring the Russian Bear to enter the ancient Byzantine capital. It had long been Moscow's intention to secure a warm-water port, but never before had the Imperial armies reached so far south. War between the two Great Powers looked more likely with every day that passed.

These great events bore, at first appearance, no relation to a brutal suburban murder in the greatest city in the world. But those appearances were deceptive, and what began in the cold wastes of the Caucasus Mountains would have a minor repercussion in a small London thoroughfare not far from our lodgings in Montague Street, and in a killing that was not what it first appeared.

+~+~+

The case began one cold March morning, when I stumbled into breakfast feeling more tired than usual. The day before, news had reached the city of the Treaty of San Stefano, which had given Russia everything she could have wanted out of her recent war with the Ottoman Empire, allowing her ships unrestricted access to both the Mediterranean and Great Britain's shipping lanes therein. The public reaction in the English capital had been fierce and (regrettably) loud, as a result of which I had got little sleep. My mood was not helped by seeing Holmes up and alert when I stumbled into our main room, which in itself was unusual if not unknown. Mercifully, there was coffee left, and he even poured me a cup before I reached the table.

He. Poured me. A coffee. My eyes widened in terror. Oh my Lord, what on earth had gone wrong?

“Sergeant Henriksen is coming round today”, Holmes said conversationally. “He has a case for me.”

“He has sent you details already?” I asked, gratefully inhaling the caffeine.

“No, but the headline in the “Times” suggests that he may require my assistance”, Holmes said. He looked at me almost sympathetically. “Would you like to read it, or would you prefer me to summarize it for you?”

I was grateful for the consideration, as my senses were still barely operational. 

“A summary, please”, I yawned. He nodded.

“Yesterday afternoon, a constable from Sergeant Henriksen's station was patrolling Rhododendron Lane, not far from here, when he heard a loud scream from Number Forty-Seven. He immediately went and knocked at the door, and when no-one answered, forced his way in. In the lounge he found the dead body of the house owner, a Miss Frances Hanover, a lady who had only just moved into the area. She had been stabbed in the neck; furthermore, there was a blood-stained knife lying nearby, which was subsequently identified as belonging to Miss Hanover's neighbour, a Mr. Nicola Ricoletti who, it emerged, had been paying court to her of late. He has since been arrested.”

“Does the article say anything about the murderer?” I asked.

“It says that Mr. Ricoletti, thirty-one, only moved to the area himself last year, from a small town just outside Venice”, Holmes said. “He has a club foot, so does not get about much, and lives with his former wife Gina.”

I looked up in surprise, then winced as my body forcibly reminded me that sudden movements were inadvisable. 

“Surely he is a Catholic, if he is from Italy?” I wondered. “How then did he obtain a divorce?”

“The paper reported that he is actually of a small sect which, whilst it recognizes Papal authority in most respects, does allow divorce”, Holmes explained. “Apparently the couple have to remain together for a year and a day before final sanction is granted, and the recent problems in the area must have prompted a rapid removal to the safety of an English street.”

“Not that safe”, I muttered, “considering that their neighbour is dead and that he is the chief suspect!”

Holmes smiled, but said nothing.

“It all sounds very straightforward”, I said, a little plaintively. 

“It might be”, he admitted, “had not Miss Hanover been one of the principal Austro-Hungarian spies in this country!”

I spluttered my mouthful of coffee inelegantly across the table..

“Had you not better be getting ready for your day's work?” Holmes asked teasingly.

“You cannot seriously let me go to work with just that!” I protested (it was not a whine, whatever anyone said). Holmes smiled.

“The sergeant is not coming round until five o'clock”, he said. “I promise that I shall not start the case without my trusty sidekick!”

I blushed a little. After our East End adventure, I had challenged my friend as to why he required my presence on his cases, and he had observed that 'even the sharpest knife needs a good whetstone, my friend.' That someone as obviously intelligent as Holmes valued my humble opinion was, I thought, strangely warming.

Even if I was unsure about being compared to a lump of rock!

+~+~+

I was just emerging from my room when our visitor arrived. It was definitely not Sergeant Henriksen. And judging from the decidedly unwelcoming look on my friend's face, he knew full well who it actually was.

“Bacchus!” he growled. “What do _you_ want?”

I might say at this point that I do not normally judge from first appearances, but I took an instant dislike to the man who, I remembered from the name, was one of Holmes' elder brothers, and presumably the replacement for the recently departed (and totally un-lamented) Mr. Sebastian Moran. Mr. Bacchus Holmes was nothing like his brother in appearance; slightly taller, blond-haired and sporting a stylized short beard, he was the archetypal lounge-lizard, with the sort of face that made any right-thinking Englishman want to punch him. Hard. 

It did not help that he immediately took my chair.

“That is Watson's place”, Holmes said frostily. “ _You_ will either stand, or take the fireside chair.”

There was clearly an air of tension between the two brothers. Bacchus Holmes looked as if he might stay put for a moment, but eventually sighed, got up and made his way to the fireside chair, into which he all but fell. I took my place by the table and watched my friend cautiously. Our visitor broke the uneasy silence.

“You have not been around much, Sher....”

“Do not call me that!” Holmes ground out. “I presume you are here over the Rhododendron Lane Affair?”

Our unwelcome guest sighed.

“And, of course, to see my favourite little brother”, he said. He reached across presumably in an attempt to make contact with his brother, but Holmes shot him such a look that he pulled his hand back as if burnt. There was a pained silence.

“All right”, our guest said. “Dizzy is not pleased, by the way. Another international incident is all we need right now.”

I was shocked to realize that he was actually referring to our esteemed prime minister. Holmes noticed my expression.

“I would remind you that despite his playboy exterior”, he said heavily, “my brother 'functions' – if that is the right word – as a valued government operative.”

Said brother stood and bowed deeply to us both.

“Proof, if needed, that appearances are often deceptive!” Holmes added.

“Sherlock!” his brother snapped. Holmes turned to him.

“Tell us about the murder of Miss Hanover”, he said quietly.

Bacchus Holmes looked pointedly at me.

“Can _he_ be trusted?” he asked his brother, looking at me as if I was something the cat had just dragged in. I was frankly offended, but Holmes spoke before I could.

“More than certain family members I might name”, he said acidly. 

His brother glared at him, and I resisted the urge to crow. It took some effort.

“All right”, our guest said, sprawling himself back across his chair. “As I am sure you know – because Sher here knows everything - Frances Hanover was one of the most accomplished Austro-Hungarian spies in this country.”

“Then why did you not arrest her?” I wondered.

Bacchus Holmes looked at me as if I was frankly an idiot. At least until his brother threw a biscuit at him.

“Sherlock!”

“You cannot expect Watson to understand the intricacies of government, any more than _you_ could be expected to understand the intricacies of medicine!” he snapped, before turning back to me. “What my uninformative brother means is that, knowing Miss Hanover was a spy, the British government were able to make sure that the information she supplied to her masters in Vienna was exactly what our country wanted them to believe. And nothing more.”

“Oh”, I said. “I see now.”

“The newspaper article is, for once, surprisingly accurate”, our visitor observed. “However, certain key facts have been omitted.”

“Which are?” Holmes prompted.

“We are unclear as to just how deep the relationship between Mr. Ricoletti and Miss Hanover had become”, he said, clearly still annoyed at my presence if the looks I was getting were any judge. “His wife – soon to be ex-wife - disapproved of it, but suspected that it had gone further than he had said. And she, in turn, is one of the problems of this case.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“She is dating a young man, a Mr. Gianluca diMoro. He is an attaché at the Italian Embassy, a right little buck if ever there was one, which brings in our spaghetti-eating friends. And that, my dear brother, is something we do not need at the moment.”

“Why?” I asked, curiously. Holmes turned to me.

“In the pan-European war which, my brother quite correctly judges, will happen sooner or later, the position of Italy will be important”, he explained. “And not just because she could threaten our shipping lanes in the Mediterranean. At the moment, the governments in Berlin and Vienna are doing everything in their power to ensure that Rome sides with them in the coming conflict. Mishandling an incident such as this could make that task easier.”

“I see”, I said. “But what if Mr. Ricoletti is indeed guilty?”

“Like his unwilling house-mate, he is registered with both Italian and British citizenship”, our visitor said. “In the event that we can obtain sufficient proof, that evidence would be handed over along with him and/or her to the Italian government, to do with as they see fit. Her Majesty's Government would not like it, but provided that they never returned to this country, they would accept such a deal.”

“If it can be proven”, Holmes said. “I believe that I shall need to stir myself and visit the crime scene.”

Our visitor seemed to hesitate, and I had an instinctive feeling that he was about to say something dumb. For once, my instincts were spot-on.

“Mother would prefer for you to live at home”, he said, eyeing his brother warily. “She feels that.....”

“No.”

“But Sherlock....”

“The matter is _not_ open for discussion”, Holmes said coldly. “And if you persist, then I might use my next visit to see Mother to inform her about you and the under-housemaid.” 

Our unwelcome visitor glared at me, as I made a point of muttering 'under-housemaid' as I wrote that down. He huffed in exasperation, and I definitely caught my friend out in a slight smirk.

“You would not tell them about all that!” our visitor scoffed. Holmes raised an eyebrow at him

“Try me!” he grinned.

Thus began my unwonted acquaintanceship with Mr. Bacchus Holmes. It pretty much went downhill from there.

+~+~+

The following day was, fortunately, a Saturday, so I was able to accompany Holmes to Rhododendron Lane, which lay only a short cab ride from our rooms. It was a row of terraced houses, not the best area socially, but not the worst either. All the properties were well-kept, and predictably there was a knot of people gathered outside Number Forty-Seven, with a constable on duty to keep them in order. Holmes presented our credentials, and we were admitted to the house to find his annoying brother waiting for us, along with a worried-looking second constable.

“Police Constable Penry-Jones”, Bacchus Holmes explained. “He found the body.”

Holmes turned to him.

“You examined the body when you found it, of course?” he asked.

The constable blushed. I wondered why, but not for long.

“I did, sir”, he muttered, looking anywhere but at us. “She was wearing one of those long thin dressing-gown things, and..... uh, her undergarments, sir.”

“A kimono”, I supplied. “An odd thing to wear around the house, especially at that time of day.”

“She had a dress-fitting scheduled for earlier”, Bacchus Holmes said. “It was a warm day, so presumably she decided to remain in it.”

Holmes gestured to a door in the wall by the fireplace.

“Does that lead into the Ricoletti's house?” he asked.

“Yes, sir”, the constable said, “but it's locked. Besides, they keep a heavy dresser against the door on their side. Tommy – sorry, Constable Wales – he noticed that when he interviewed the ex-wife this morning.”

“It is most regrettable that Mrs. Ricoletti had no motive”, Bacchus Holmes said heavily. “The divorce cannot be finalized if her husband is in jail, as it requires his presence when he signs it off.”

“What if he is hung?” Holmes asked. His brother shook his head.

“They both have to return to Italy to get the church elders to counter-sign their petition, a year and a day after it was lodged”, he explained. “If he swung, then the marriage stands for five years from the original petition date.”

“That is cruel!” I said. 

“The papers reported was that the fatal wound was in the neck?” Holmes asked.

“That's right, sir”, the policeman said. “And it was definitely Mr. Ricoletti's knife. We found his fingerprints on it, and his ex-wife confirmed it when we challenged her on it. Reluctantly, sir.”

“Thank you, constable”, Holmes said. “If you could please join your colleague outside for a moment, my brother and I have things to discuss.”

Constable Penry-Jones nodded, and left us in peace. Bacchus Holmes looked at his brother expectantly. 

“I need to see the body, and I need to visit Mr. Ricoletti's house”, Holmes said crisply. “Is his ex-wife at home?”

“Yes, and expecting us”, Bacchus Holmes said.

“Then let us not keep a lady waiting.”

+~+~+

Having said how much I try to avoid judging on first appearances, I have to say that I took an instant dislike to Gina Ricoletti. I felt instinctively that I would not want her wielding a sharp instrument anywhere in my vicinity. She was young, beautiful and charming, but there was something cold and calculating about her, even when she spoke of her ex-husband.

“Poor, poor Nico”, she said sadly. “I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but That Woman led him on.”

I could hear the capitals in that sentence.

“How long had Mr. Ricoletti been seeing Miss Hanover?” Holmes asked.

“He had been paying court to her ever since she moved in, over a month ago”, she sniffed. “As far as I know, they did not go out together. I think she enjoyed leading him on, and him worshipping her on her pedestal. She had more than enough other male visitors, the Jezebel!”

Jealousy, I thought wryly. And she had the green eyes to go with it.

“What do you do for a living, Mrs. Ricoletti?” Holmes asked. She seemed surprised at the question.

“I work as a dressmaker”, she said. “I supply dresses to Debenham and Hewitt, in Wigmore Street, but I also do my own work. I was round there yesterday afternoon, fitting Miss Hanover for a new dress that she was purchasing. It must have been less than an hour before.....”

She tailed off, and I could not help thinking her whole performance was somewhat theatrical. Then again, her ex-husband could be facing the gallows, ruining her own prospects in the process. Holmes got up and walked over to the dresser.

“Is that a Meissen?” he asked, looking closely at a hideous vase. His questions were strange today, I thought.

“Lord, no!” she smiled. “Just an old family piece from home.”

Holmes studied the vase intently, as if it might tell him something.

“And Mr. Ricoletti works as a stonemason?” he asked, not looking round.

“Yes. I suppose that that was in the paper, too?”

“No”, Holmes smiled. “I just knew. We shall not take up any of your valuable time, madam. Good day.”

He bowed, and led us out. Once outside, his brother turned to him.

“All right, Sherlock, what do you know?”

Holmes led us out into the street and away from the still considerable crowd before speaking.

“I would like Watson to examine the corpse”, he said.

“What am I looking for?” I asked.

He smiled and shook his head at me.

“If I told you that, you might find it anyway!” he said. “Let us go to the station, and see what you can see!”

+~+~+

“I still find it odd that she was still wearing the kimono an hour after she tried on the new dress”, I observed, as our cab took us to the police station. “As I recall, the day of the murder was not that warm; I had to attend a client all the way out in Tottenham, so I remember. Was there even a dress?”

“There was”, Bacchus said shortly. “We checked; Mrs. Ricoletti had started work on adjusting it for her. And a neighbour reported that he saw Mrs. Ricoletti coming out of Number Forty-Seven and going back into her own house.”

“Do not snap at the good doctor”, Holmes said reprovingly. “His point is a valid one.”

His brother looked at him, then gasped.

“Do you mean she and Ricoletti were.... and then he..... ugh!”

“Pot, kettle, black”, Holmes said in a sing-song voice.

His brother glared at him. Fortunately the cab chose that minute to reach the station, and I prepared for my examination of the late Miss Frances Hanover.

+~+~+

Examining the body of someone who had so many years ahead of them is always an unpleasant task, even if the woman had been an enemy of my country. But Holmes was, of course, right. I did find something. I emerged to find the brothers waiting for me.

“Well?” Bacchus Holmes said expectantly.

“She was indeed stabbed”, I said. “With enough force to kill her.”

“We already knew that!” Bacchus Holmes ground out.

“Except”, I said, “that was not what killed her.”

Bacchus Holmes gulped, and I noticed my detective friend give me a look of triumphant vindication.

“She was strangled, with something about half an inch in diameter”, I said. “Not a rope, or anything cutting; the marking is even all the way round. The stab wound occurred some time after the strangulation; I cannot estimate how long, but it was only a short time. The stabbing was done presumably to attempt to hide the real means of death.”

“But why would our Italian friend strangle her, and then stab her?” Bacchus Holmes asked. “It does not make any sense at all.”

“On the contrary, it makes perfect sense”, Holmes said. “Well done, doctor. Bacchus, I am sure one of your operatives could retrieve an item from Rhododendron Lane for me if I asked?”

“Yes?” his brother said cautiously. “What is it?”

Holmes wrote down something on a slip of paper and handed it to him. His brother read it, and looked at him curiously.

“Why...?” he began.

“Bring that to our rooms in two hours' time, and I shall tell you how it was done”, he smiled.

“Sher, I really....”

“Call me that again, and I will make you wait until tomorrow!”

I did not smirk as his brother hurried away. Well, not much.

Oh, all right. I smirked!

+~+~+

Two hours (almost to the second) later, a visibly impatient Mr. Bacchus Holmes was duly shown in, and dropped something onto the table next to his brother. It was, much to my surprise, a tape-measure. Holmes smiled, and looked knowingly at me, earning himself an annoyed growl from his brother.

“Explain why he used such a dumb thing”, he demanded.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at him. His brother grumbled under his breath.

“Please?” he managed, clearly making a visible effort.

“Very well”, Holmes said. “First, you will have to release Mr. Nicola Ricoletti, as the only crime he is guilty of is an almost fatally poor judgement in the selection of his dating partners. A serious character flaw maybe, but not really a capital offence.”

“What?”

“Second, you will have to contact the Italian Embassy, as they are not going to like what has happened”, Holmes said firmly. “However, well-handled, I think that they will appreciate Her Majesty's Government's 'discretion' in this matter, given the fuss that could have been made. A less kind person would use the term 'whitewash' for your actions, but I shall desist.”

“Discretion over what?” Bacchus Holmes demanded.

Holmes settled himself comfortably into his chair, ignoring his brother's glares.

“At around two o'clock, Miss Ricoletti calls on Miss Hanover to fit her for her new dress”, Holmes began. “Miss Hanover was wearing a kimono, in expectation of her visit, and planned to change back afterwards. Mrs. Ricoletti told her that she needed to measure her collar, then simply crossed with the tape-measure and pulled around the neck. The whole process would probably have taken less than a minute.”

“But.... why....?” his brother began.

“Because as I suspected and Constable Penry-Jones confirmed, he does his rounds in much the same way every day, Mrs. Ricoletti knew that he would be along the street between half past two and a quarter to three”, Holmes said. “She has someone at the door watching out for him; her lover, Mr. Gianluca diMoro. It pains me that he will be able to claim diplomatic immunity for his part in this affair, although I am hopeful that the Italian government will have the decency to remove him to another post. Elba, hopefully.”

I smiled.

“Miss Ricoletti has already taken advantage of her lookout to ensure that a neighbour is in their garden when she appears to return to her own house”, Holmes said. “Once she is there, she swiftly rejoins her lover through the connecting door. On seeing Constable Penry-Jones turning into the street, Mr. diMoro returns to the house and forcibly stabs Miss Hanover in the neck, causing as much damage as possible to hide the bruising. Once the constable is near, Mrs. Ricoletti screams, then they immediately leave through the connecting door.”

“That reminds me, “I said, “how did you know that Mr. Ricoletti worked as a stonemason, if you never saw him?” 

Holmes smiled.

“There was Portland stone dust on the floor in the Ricoletti house”, he explained. “And although the floor had been swept, there were still faint marks from where the dresser had been moved back and then forward again. Obviously Mrs. Ricoletti could not move such an item herself, so she had to have had an accomplice.”

“The 'Meissen' vase!” I chuckled.

“Exactly”, he said. “To continue. The constable comes in and finds the blood-spattered knife, which Mrs. Ricoletti took from her husband's coat the night before. His guilt is seemingly certain, and he will face the punishment she richly believes that he deserves.”

“But she will not get her divorce”, I objected.

“Mrs. Ricoletti is a passionate Italian”, Holmes said, “patriotic flames which have doubtless been fanned by her liaison with Mr. diMoro. I do not doubt that the latter, possibly because of Mr. Ricoletti's objections to his suit, informed Mrs. Ricoletti of Miss Hanover's true status, and the desirability of getting rid of her. Doubtless he promised to wait the necessary time for her. Which of the two was more instrumental in the plot I cannot say, but I favour the lady. This was, in every sense, a crime of passion.”

+~+~+

Holmes was right, of course. Her Majesty's Government presented the evidence to the Italians, and requested (off the record) that Mr. diMoro be withdrawn with immediate effect. There was a definite threat of him being declared _persona non grata_ if he was not, but fortunately Rome saw sense, and he was out of the country within a week. Mrs. Ricoletti was charged with murder but, as she had dual citizenship, the British government accepted that she be allowed to serve a life sentence in an Italian jail, where she remains to this day. Her husband was of course unable to remarry for some years, but then I suppose that the institution may have lost some of its appeal to him, given recent events. He later returned to his homeland.

+~+~+

Our next case would involve the theft of Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara, and an unexpected change of address for Holmes and myself.


End file.
